bird call . . . insect . . .
who is it wakes me
in the deepest dark?

morning fog
a carpenter calls
for a 2 x 4

leaves turning —
the toboggan hanging
in the dark garage

ebb tide
the other tracks in the sand
also mine

clothesline —
ballet tights frozen
in fifth position

half-empty bed
I try to recall
his faults

an early chill —
the toolshed door
pounds on its latch

one maple leaf . . .
end over end on the sand
without a trace

gliding hawk
balancing the light
on stiffened wings

quitting time
snowflakes blend
with the crowd